


Killing Snakes

by harvest_song



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Time, Fluff, Introspection, M/M, Meta-analysis masquerading as fic, Pining, Post-Canon, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Smut, Virgin Aziraphale (Good Omens), do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-24 07:30:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20354695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harvest_song/pseuds/harvest_song
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale are at the beginning of something new.





	Killing Snakes

**Author's Note:**

> I'm finally popping my smut-writing cherry. This is probably horrible and it has definitely not been betaed. But I'm posting this before I run out of nerve.
> 
> Characters have male pronouns/gender presentations in this. 
> 
> Also couldn't get the footnotes to work so you'll have to scroll. Sorry y'all. I'm HTML inept.

Creativity.

It’s one of the first traits he learns to leverage - not by choice, mind, but by virtue of needing to survive in this godforsaken place. It had served him plenty well above, well, until that creativity turned to questioning and betrayed him, placing him out of the reach of divinity.

Virtues in any form have never served him particularly well. Wit and reflex have served him far better, words spilling like so many shadows from a tongue sharpened through innumerable years spent living in a world designed to inevitably wear one down to the ash and stardust that makes up the core of a person; they have smoothed over many a slight, planted many a suggestion, and tempted many an errant soul on the precipice of something awful.

Humans are a superstitious lot, lashing out against things they don't understand. And they do not understand _him_. He had learned this lesson the hard way, many many times - discovering quickly that they sense his inhumanity and the obvious reminder of it, his eyes, scare them. They fear what they do not and cannot understand mostly. So creativity provided him his first disguise, after which, untold others followed, his body and identity fluid and slithering through time and place immaterial, countless identities adopted in an unbroken series of obfuscations allowing him to perform his tasks unhindered.

Creative lies and obfuscations are how he slips unnoticed, passing through innumerable forests and swamps and deserts and cities with the barest presence. He is unnoticed, unremarkable to most whom he has brief contact, memory of him forgotten because he simply doesn't want to be noticed. He has spent numerous millennia as a walking shadow, moving from place to place without any permanency like a spectre, following humanity as they populate new spaces, creating a plethora of new opportunities to stalk and target the collective with new temptations and sins with the pinpoint accuracy of a coiled snake ready to strike.

It is a strange kinship to have, with snakes, he thinks. He’s certainly watched plenty of them die - some meet their ends on their bellies, crawling along the muddied banks of fetid swamps, others die on their feet, with swords brandished like so many poisonous fangs. Regardless of form, they all die the same, hissing, spitting, and curling in on themselves.

The death of a snake is twofold; there’s one you cause when you snap its neck, or remove its head when it’s teeth leave twin fang marks in a leather boot and the final, self-propelled one that causes them to dance as the thing that holds the poison back falters and fails - they curl in on themselves, diamond shaped scales twisting as muscles contract of their own accord, poison threading through catgut and sinew, latching thin vertebrae into themselves as nerves and synapses snap and fry, destroying what remains until there is nothing left but the remnants of bile and a corpse, stinking of the fate it meant to inflict on something else.

His first death had come at the hands of his own curiosity and insatiable hunger to know more, to learn. Cast from heaven, his wings smouldering, skin singed and burned and unrecognizable, he’d emerged an entirely different being. He still had those wings, but they were burned obsidian. His eyes once a sharp, burnished gold, now serpentine, divorced entirely from the holy grace and divine power they once heralded. A mark singed permanently and unmistakably onto the side of his face, tattooed with the curse set upon him by his creator. A reminder of what he is now and the favor he will never regain.

_Cursed are you above all livestock and all wild animals. You will crawl on your belly and you will eat dust all the days of your life_ [1]

The curse echoes through his head. It is the terminal, eternal price of his hubris and audacity; for daring to question the unquestionable.

He supposes that he will die the second death someday… and it will be a permanent one, most likely delivered at the hands of those he used to call’ brother’.

But it won’t come without inconveniencing the bastards as much as possible first. And it certainly hadn't come today.

He’s made quite a habit of inconveniencing Heaven over the course of several millennia, in fact, by befriending their erstwhile Angel.

His intentions with the angel, however, aren’t so dark or sinister. Their connection to each other, by comparison to the other deeds Crowley is tasked with, is purely personal and is wholly voluntary. There is no deceit undertaken, other than the larger lies that Crowley tells himself in an effort to maintain a thin veneer of propriety- intended to protect his friend from Crowley’s baser desires (which, ironically enough, are driven by the very deep feelings Crowley carries for him, which are not so untoward), and perhaps from his own hedonistic streak. That veneer is heavily weakened given recent events and he isn't so sure he can maintain it.

In his work, Crowley partakes in single-minded and particularly stringent focus. While Aziraphale may perform some of his smaller temptations without issue, Crowley is by far more skilled at it by virtue of what he is, and so Crowley only passes off his easier assignments, single temptations, generally the more sexual ones - he knows Aziraphale is skilled enough at them, with Lust being so close to Love, and frequently stemming from it, and the Angel will take these assignments with little protest. It is one of the more alluring things about this imperfect angel, that he is willing to do these tasks for him so willingly.

Crowley doesn’t rely on the usual trades of his kind, the single soul gambits, the nightmares. No, his skill lies in sewing a much quieter discord on a collective and wider scale, using humanity’s penchant for both tribal politics and connectivity and leveraging their social needs to more than fill his quota of petty misdeeds, sins, and temptations. Nobody need know that mankind is far more capable of thinking up their own brand of evil on a much grander scale than he is - he just simply… tempts them to it. It is much easier to stoke the fires of discontent to the point where malice boils and spills over at a flashpoint, consuming anything in its wake, than it is to effect greater change all at once. It is also considerably more effective. Low grade evils beget bigger ones- multiple souls bound for the legions of hell with minimal effort, and he doesn't particularly feel bad about it. These people are acting on impulses that would likely damn them regardless of his interference. He merely helps things along.

He’s an apex predator, with all of the skills it involves to become one and the finesse required to exercise them. He is the Tempter and the architect of Original Sin and he is unapologetic in his capacity to imagine an infinite number of ways that humanity can make things go pear shaped.

Misdirection and verbal sleight of hand allow doubt to creep into places where someone may have once held conviction or certainty. He merely provides the suggestion- he does not tell them what to do. That always comes part and parcel of their own free will - the choice is ultimately always theirs.

And Humanity loves choosing wrong, in his experience.

The thrill of vices associated with bad behavior, gratification, and vindication typically win out over morality and restraint. It’s rare that someone in his thrall doesn’t follow through on a temptation he’s offered. It is a skill he has mastered highly over the level over his fellow demons, and it is what has made him marketable to his superiors, despite his remarkably blasé attitude toward the job, and lack of ambition to follow through on grander schemes.

Not that Crowley is _lazy_, by any means. It’s more or less that his moral code, skewed as it is, lies somewhere in the great, hazy middle ground that got him kicked out of Heaven in the first place. He does not fit the mold of either a Demon or an Angel particularly well - other than when it suits him, and he is equally likely to play for either side if he finds material benefit, entertainment, or intellectual stimulation in a particular task. He revels in sticking it to both Heaven and Hell, and Crowley knows how to play the long game - every step measured, calculated prior to acting on it, with contingencies in place for accidental missteps and inevitable cockups.

Crowley, for all of his aptitude being at what he is, does not take pleasure in the base sorts of evils his bretheren excercise - murder, torture, and physical pain are not things he prefers to visit on others. He is an anxious creature who cares a rather significant amount about how he is perceived by others and he feels things, in a way that he knows that other demons do not.

He feels that his punishment, after thousands of years, is that She only did a half assed job of ripping away his divinity, leaving him squarely in this fucked up limbo where he is fully cognizant of both pain and love in equal measure, and he understands their inextricable link to each other. She left him with just enough holiness to feel remorse, and that is a worse thing than if she had just stripped it all completely from him. It is a terrible thing to understand what one visits upon their victims and to be all too terribly human and inhuman at the same time.

Despite this, he has carefully crafted his own niche, their own 'side' of sorts, and it is something that has been 6000 years in the making. The creativity required to carve out a space outside the attention of either of their factions, to ensure the long term survivability of a friendship between two such unlikely creatures in the face of bigger things than them, is immense.

His creativity and search for something new is why he approaches the Guardian of the Eastern Gate on that wall, so many millennia ago, to jokingly ask him where his sword disappeared to.

It is why he asks him two millennia later to consider an Arrangement.

It is why he asks the Angel for the holy water centuries later, knowing it may destroy what tenuous trust the two have built. Because the Angel thinks it’s to destroy him, when realistically, he thinks it is only a matter of time that the powers that be (namely, Beelzebub) will discover that he has been keeping his friends close, but his enemies closer in a way that will be decidedly bad for both parties.

It’s why he convinces the Angel to ignore his own conditioning again to thwart the machinations of both their respective sides, even if he expects it to fail.

It’s why he currently finds his fingers entangled with said Angel’s while seated in a taxi, driving back to his Mayfair flat, after one too many glasses of wine, enjoying both the exhilaration of avoiding yet another close call, and the company of his companion.

Crowley’s long game has never been to run interference against Heaven. Nor has it been to do the bidding of his overlords in Hell. No, his long game has always been his own, not driven by the petty vindictiveness of angry demons or self-righteous angels seeking vengeance for slights too old to count.

His long game has always been wine soaked conversations, licentious enjoyment of the fruits of the Earth, and the complexity of the human experience. Time with Aziraphale.

His end goal - to be allowed to live in peace and be allowed the same free will as those he has been contracted to tempt for so long.

To love freely. To live freely.

He looks over at his companion- Aziraphale’s cheeks are ruddy from the heady combination of adrenaline and liquor, his expressive cornflower blue eyes are alight with the simple joy of being with a friend and having survived both the end of the world and attempts on both their lives. He feels a tug at his heartstrings.

Aziraphale has been his only actual companion for more years than he cares to count or consider. It’s only natural, he thinks, that he should manage to love the one person who can both understand his experiences and himself as a whole. He just hadn’t expected to fall in love with him. He knows that there is a distinct gap (more of a chasm, really) between the love of a comrade and the sort of things he currently feels. And he is keenly aware of the fact that the Angel seated next to him, despite all of the Angel’s love for all of the hedonistic, wanton things that make humanity so appealing, will probably not reciprocate.

Ironic that a creature of love, won't and can't (he reminds himself) love him back.

He accepted this a long time ago. It does not stop him from asking the blithely oblivious Angel to his flat. It does not stop him from entangling his thin, spider like fingers with the warmer, larger hands of his friend's. It does not stop the aching want to hold him, to possess him, to cling and never let go.

He is a covetous creature. After all, he was designed that way and Hell is fantastic at sharpening one's worst traits to a well honed point. He just wishes it didn't hurt so damn much at times.

He shifts his legs, cramped behind the driver’s seat. The woman driving the car looks in her rear view at them and smiles faintly.

“Where am I taking ya?” She asks, addressing the more sober of the two. The blonde is seemingly three sheets to the wind. The man in the sunglasses appears non-plussed.

“Mayfair.” Crowley says quietly, then rattles off the address to his building. He let Aziraphale get hammered at the restaurant, but he fully intends to have his way with the bottle of Glenlivet he’s been stashing away for longer than he cares to admit once they are safely ensconced inside his flat, with several layers of very nasty wards firmly placed between the two of them and the rest of the world.

He feels the driver's eyes on them and attempts to disentangle himself from that small point of warm contact between them. He senses the way Aziraphale clings to his hand as he attempts to pull away. He thinks better of it, allowing the angel to hold on, despite the fact that his grip on it is strong and threatens to cut the circulation off to his fingers.

He looks up at the cabbie's face in the rearview mirror. Her eyes twinkle with what he thinks is probably amusement. He shifts uncomfortably, cheeks graced with a blush. The look she is shooting them from the driver's seat is knowing and she says nothing, just briefly smiling her own approval as she winds through the noise and traffic to take them to their destination.

A few moments later, she pulls up to the curb outside his apartment building. Aziraphale clambers out as Crowley fumbles for his wallet. He extracts a handful of pound notes, more than needed to cover the fare and tip.

As the driver accepts the cash, she places a hand on top of Crowley's and conspiratorially whispers, "You should tell him, you know."

Crowley's eyes widen behind his sunglasses. The woman smiles, adjusting her headscarf. "Have a good night." She says with finality and he climbs from the car.

He sighs as the strange woman pulls away from the curb. Is it that obvious? He wonders as he leads Aziraphale to the private elevator around the side of the building. He slips the key in the lock and waits for the lift. Aziraphale is happily babbling something about a novel he is reading and Crowley smiles faintly. He would gladly face certain death at the hands of a thousand angry Angels with bucketfuls of holy water before allowing them to touch Aziraphale again.

They stumble into the elevator. Uneasy fingers fumble for an access badge in his pocket. He swipes it past the electronic reader next to the floor selector and roughly jams his thumb into the selection for the penthouse on the top floor. He nods agreeably to a verbal suggestion that they should have some more alcohol once they get into his flat but his mind is elsewhere, tripping on the sticky idea that maybe it isn't as far fetched a thing as he thinks, loving Aziraphale. The thought is quickly replaced, however, with the realization that he is going back to his flat, where something awful had nearly happened to him.

His heart races a bit uncomfortably as he sticks his house key into the door, anxiety licking at the back of his mind. He remembers Hastur and Ligur and the holy water he had used on his fellow demon. He realizes that it is still there.

Aziraphale immediately notices the sludgy remains in the foyer, as well as the overturned hardware store bucket. He makes a face and realization dawns on the Angel like a lorry hitting him at 80 miles per hour. Shock and horror compete for space on his face.

"...Was… this was what you wanted the holy water for." the angel stammers. He points to the black, tarry spot of ichor on grey carpeting that had once been a Duke of Hell.

"Someone… they tried to _kill_ you. Before...?"

Crowley nods, careful to not express the discomfort that the memory dredges up. "That is… _was_ Ligur." He points to the mess on his carpet, expression carefully as blank as he can make it, "Or rather… what’s left of him. Not really sure what to do about the uh, leftovers. I probably should not touch that, given… y'know. Holy water and all..." He trails off, disgust wrinkling his nose.

He had never cared for Ligur, though, he would grudgingly admit that he had been the smarter half of the skulking pair of demons that Crowley had spent the better part of the last decade answering to for the whole Antichrist debacle. Having boiled him down to a grease spot on his ash colored carpet is not his first choice on the list of ways of disposing of a would-be murderer, however, he doesn't particularly care that there is now one less snake in the pit to clamp it's jaws around his neck and the manner in which the death of the other demon has occurred seems fitting enough. He will deal with the other one some other time. He does want to think about them right now.

Aziraphale nods, drunken flush replaced by a horrified, ashen pallor and a level of sobriety that usually isn't accomplished without preternatural intervention.

Aziraphale quietly mutters, "I will deal with this." He removes his jacket, placing it on the coat tree behind the door, and he unbuttons and rolls up his cotton shirt sleeves to his forearms.

Crowley nods his assent. "I'll get us some drinks." He notices Aziraphale’s shirt sleeves rolled up, and he swallows thickly. He hasn’t seen the Angel’s arms bare above the wrist in centuries. Aziraphale’s forearms are strong, muscled with just enough meat to them to make them look welcoming rather than foreboding. He badly wants them wrapped around him, to make all of the horrible shit roiling through his skull stop. He would also like them to be moving to do any of the many, many things he has imagined the hands attached to them doing to him over the centuries.

He disappears into the depths of his stark, minimalistic flat, banishing a series of unwelcome and unbidden thoughts that make his chest constrict uncomfortably.

The place is modern‐ charcoal grey concrete walls and black furniture and chrome appliances, and sharp angles and it contains none of the charm or flair that he typically exudes. It is minimalistic and spartan, clean to the point of discomfort and is mostly devoid of character, with the exception of the gaudy looking throne in his office, a rather explicit statue of an angel and a demon engaged in a fight that looks a lot more like something vulgar than fighting, a handful of obscenely expensive paintings, and a verdant array of well tended houseplants that litter the entirety of the space. It is a dichotomy that he is well aware of and typically relishes in.

Crowley typically appreciates open space and the honesty of a clean, unfettered place to hang his head. His thoughts are frequently tangled and complicated- and he prefers to untangle them in a space uncluttered and uncomplicated when he is not doing so in the cramped back office of his friend's bookstore while imbibing a truly astonishing amount of alcohol. Most of his homes in the several thousand years he has walked this Earth have followed a similar pattern of uncomfortable asceticism.

Tonight, though, his spartan surroundings are hardly a balm on his racing mind.

_Friend. He’s my friend. Stop this._ The demon thinks, anxiety creeping further into the corners of his consciousness. _Is that what we are? Still? After wearing each other like a jacket? After literally walking into each other’s executions and coming out the other side?_ He wonders, reaching into the kitchen cabinet where he stores his liquor. His hands close on the neck of a bottle of scotch hidden in the recesses of the dark space and he pulls it out. His other hand finds two tumblers in the dishwasher next to him. He sets them on the counter and closes the dishwasher door with his knee, the thump and click of the door latching shut echoing through the unnaturally quiet space.

He notices that his hands are unsteady, the bottle of scotch in his hand shaking precariously. He takes a deep breath that he doesn’t need to ground himself, before raising it to pour generously into the pair of tumblers on the counter. Aziraphale enters the room a few moments later, holding a couple of very disgusting looking beige towels that he appears to have miracled to deal with the mess. Crowley points to the rubbish bin at the end of his kitchen island wordlessly, and Aziraphale, careful to avoid touching any part of the bin that Crowley may inadvertently touch later, deposits them inside of it. He draws the bag up by its handles and removes it from the bin.

“I’ll take this and toss it in the rubbish bin when I leave.” He says. “You shouldn’t touch that.”

Crowley nods, placing a freshly poured tumbler of scotch in front of the Angel, who offers him a ghost of a smile. “You seem distant tonight, my dear boy.”

Aziraphale has noticed Crowley’s unusually subdued mood. He’d expected to see the demon half-way to pissed and significantly more jubilant by now, and is frankly surprised that Crowley is acting so completely out of sorts.

Concern flashes across time weathered but timeless features. Crowley hides behind his sunglasses and his drink, careful to school his expression into something less obviously distressed and watches as Aziraphale sips from his own glass.

“I’m fine… Long day.” Crowley says, his voice not sounding nearly as neutral as he hoped. He flashes the angel a smile, a defense mechanism intended to stop the questioning. These questions can only go one place and he is not ready to consider them.

_God, please let this alcohol kick in soon_. He thinks.

Aziraphale doesn’t believe him.

“Crowley, my dear boy, you may lie to other people exceedingly well, but if you feel the need to lie to me, you will have to do better than that.” The angel says, fixing him with a look that reads some strange mixture of annoyance and fondness that Crowley’s anxious mind fumbles to parse. “What is wrong, my dear?”

Crowley sighs, taking a solid swig of liquor before placing the glass on the marble countertop. He pauses for a moment, before responding, drawing in a breath.

“...It’s just a lot, Aziraphale. All of it.” He says, not bothering to specify what exactly he means. He isn't entirely sure what he means. His mind is racing too fast, with too many jumbled thoughts competing for priority in a taxed and exhausted mind.

Aziraphale frowns, nodding. “We survived… that’s ultimately what matters.” He turns his gaze to his glass, swirling the amber liquid inside of it. “The world is still turning and we’re still here.”

“That… that we are.” He offers Aziraphale a weak smile. “It’s a miracle, certainly, that we’re still standing here.”

Crowley internally cringes as the words leave his mouth. He is definitely aware of how stupid he thinks he sounds.

Aziraphale, kind as usual, (and if he notices the uncharacteristic hopeful lilt to Crowley's voice, he doesn't say anything) approaches the skittish, nervous demon, placing his glass on the counter next to him. “And we wouldn’t be… not if you hadn’t been there.” Another smile crosses Aziraphale’s face, this one reflecting a bit of awe. “You stopped time, Crowley. I can’t even do that. None of the archangels can do that.”

Crowley shrugs, lifting his glass and downing most of it in a single gulp. He relishes the burn and the dulling of his senses. “Little trick I learned ages ago… turns out that time isn’t all that hard to manipulate, provided you have the right motivation and know how.” [2] He shrugs, almost dismissively. “It’s a fun parlour trick at any rate.”

“Well, your _parlour trick_ saved everyone, so I hardly think it’s not notable.” He steps closer to Crowley, moving to stand directly in front of him. He looks directly into Crowley’s glasses. “I’m glad you didn’t run away… to Alpha Centauri.”

Crowley waves his hand casually, dismissively, while fighting the urge to blush. “You knew I would never go… I like this spinning ball of ash and dust a little too much for that. People to tempt, places to see, liquor to drink… all that.”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale says suddenly, a blush creeping across his cheeks. "For… erm, not leaving." He inches closer to Crowley, then furtively looks down at the drink in his hand.

Crowley mutters a nervous ‘_thanks_’, raking a hand through his unruly hair trying to calm both his nerves as well as an urge to blurt out all 6000 years of pent up want and need all at once, to get it off of his chest.

He looks at the angel's exposed forearms and blushes, an errant thought about those arms pinning him to a mattress rising unbidden and derailing more chaste topics.

It's followed by self-recrimination almost immediately.

_Pull yourself together, you great bleeding *git*. He's your best friend. Your *only* friend. You both just survived execution attempts and fucking Armageddon in the last twenty four hours and your feelings and desire to get in his pants need to take a goddamn backseat. You know that what you want isn't feasible anyway, so get the fuck over it._

He suddenly wishes he were well and truly drunk. Drinking makes sorting this shit out far easier… partially due to the fact his brain typically ceases higher functions, like arousal and anxiety, after a certain point.

"...I suppose this is the first day… of whatever this is now. It's strange. I honestly… I didn't think we'd be here to see tonight." Aziraphale turns, a thoughtful and far away look dancing across his features briefly. "I still can't believe that it worked."

Crowley's gaze moves upward to Aziraphale's face, his expression intense behind smoky lenses. "Well, I'm glad it worked out."

Aziraphale nods in wordless agreement. Then looks up again, an inquisitive look having replaced the concern seated on his face moments earlier. "Why did you invite me here again tonight?" Aziraphale asks suddenly. “I understand why last night- but my bookshop is fine… so it isn't as if I don't have a place to go."

The question had rattled through Aziraphale's mind more than once that evening, however, it had taken a dose of instant, adrenaline induced sobriety caused by the knowledge that Crowley had intentionally destroyed another demon in self defense to give it the courage to find its way out of his mouth.

"...I don't want to be alone." He says, finally, before tipping the glass backward into his mouth to swallow the bitter contents. "Just… feels _wrong_ after all… everything and go back to being by myself."

Aziraphale blinks, not comprehending. He watches the way the dim, recessed lighting in the kitchen reflects off of Crowley’s auburn hair, painting it a burnished copper shade that Aziraphale finds oddly mesmerizing.

Crowley realizes, after a moment, that the words were jumbled. He coughs, attempting to save face, and corrects course. "Just figured we'd continue celebrating, is all."

Aziraphale places his drink on the counter with a delicate clink of glass on marble. He scrunches his face, the telltale sign he is going to rapidly and completely sober himself. Crowley sighs. This is not what he wants right now. Sober conversations with the angel are much, much less likely to end in anything pleasant, especially given recent circumstances. And right now, he very much wants to be numb, to feel none of the rising anxiety and panic rising in the back of his head.

Aziraphale makes an unpleasant face, indicating that the act is done before Crowley can object. He shakes his head. "Crowley, my dear…" Aziraphale begins, tentatively. Concern writes itself across his features again. "...I think it's quite alright to not want to be alone given the circumstances… what we’ve just gone through and all."

Serpentine eyes flicker agreement and a hand tightens on a glass.

He so badly wants to grab the angel by the lapels.

Aziraphale smiles, turning to Crowley. "This is… about more than just not wanting to be alone tonight, though, my dear boy. You have been a bundle of nerves and have barely spoken since we left dinner. What's wrong?"

Crowley's mouth suddenly finds itself drier than the sun-bleached Sonoran Desert in mid-July. He finds that he really doesn't want to answer that question. Not now. Not when they're still reeling from what happened.

He knows something’s up with you, you bloody idiot. You’ve been prancing around like a lovesick puppy for aeons, and you’re acting weird now.

“I...er…” He stammers, finding himself at a loss for words as the angel steps forward into his personal space. His face flushing an impressive shade of scarlet as Aziraphale reaches up to remove his glasses from his face. They’re deposited on the counter with a clatter.

“If you’re going to _lie_ to me, you’re going to do it while looking at me, Crowley.” He says, matter-of-factly. His face is close. Too close.

“I -I wasn’t going to lie!” Crowley stammers, defensively. His eyes are fixed on the Angel, who is now nearly in his face, only the space of a few chaste centimeters between them. Space that could be easily eliminated if he just leaned forward and did something about it. He is perfectly aware that Aziraphale is close enough now that he can smell the mix of cologne and the traces of petrichor, of sea salt and vanilla that are Aziraphale’s own unique scent. It is heady and it intoxicates him more than the paltry amount of liquor he’s managed to imbibe.

Sky blue eyes meet green-gold for a moment - Aziraphale fights a rising blush, and peers closely into Crowley’s face, attempting to fathom the series of thoughts and emotions that cause the demon to look at him like that. They stare at each other for a period of time that seems to be longer than etiquette deems appropriate, and then, coiled with the anticipation and want and need of sixty centuries, he strikes - Crowley fists his hands in Aziraphale’s lapels, pulls him forward, and closes the remaining gap between them, closing his eyes and pressing his lips hungrily to the Angel’s before he even really realizes what he is doing. Aziraphale is warm, his lips soft, and pliant beneath Crowley’s hungry, searching mouth. It takes Crowley more than a moment to realize that Aziraphale is not fighting him, nor is he stunned. He’s reciprocating. Enthusiastically.

He tastes of the scotch he has just been drinking- strong, mildly bitter notes turning sweet and intoxicating the longer they taste each other. This kiss is long, languid, honey sweet.

Time feels like it stops for a few moments and he’s not quite sure how much time has passed by the time the two of them break apart for oxygen that neither one of them particularly needs. He opens his eyes, taking in the slightly flushed, dazed, and glassy-eyed stare of his best friend. He drops his hands from where they have knotted themselves in Aziraphale’s jacket.

_Ohfuckohshitohfuckmesideways_. _Crowley, you great bleeding tit, what the fuck did you just *do*?_ His anxious mind screams at him to do something, say anything, but he stands stock still, a handful of seconds passing like hours, waiting for the angel to respond.

Aziraphale notices Crowley’s sudden panic and takes matters into his own hands. He brings his hands to Crowley’s face, smiles, and leans back in to pick up where they had left off. This, this he had wanted for more years than he dared to admit, and he was not about to let the jumpy demon run from this. He is well aware of Crowley's propensity to overthink and misinterpret silence for rejection- he has been on the empty handed end of many a conversation (and perhaps aborted love confession, he thinks, based on their current situation) and he desperately does not want this to stop.

Aziraphale’s hands move to cradle Crowley’s neck, one of them finding its way into the slightly longer hair at the crown of Crowley’s head. His fingers knot themselves gently in short pillarbox hair. He feels Crowley’s thin fingers move upward to splay against his chest, against the small of the Angel’s spine. He draws them closer together, chest, hips, and legs flush as Aziraphale finds himself backed against the island. Hands roam over clothes, over what little skin is exposed; teeth nip and bite gently at lips and tongues war for dominance in a dance as old as life itself. Crowley’s thigh is pressing tantalizingly between his legs. Crowley can feel his arousal there, hard against his leg. He grins.

Hands move again, under jackets and undoing buttons on waistcoats, sliding them off of broad shoulders, not caring about the heap they fall into on the floor. They will be retrieved later.

Crowley moans as Aziraphale’s fingers tug gently at the hair on his scalp. He breaks the kiss off, and Aziraphale’s mouth wanders to his jawline and Adam’s apple, and Crowley feels the scrape of teeth and the pressure of a mark being worried at the juncture between throat and shoulder. His heart is pounding loudly in his chest, in his ears, and he is dimly aware of Aziraphale beginning to tug insistently upwards on his shirt, intent on removing it from where it is tucked into his by now impossibly tight and increasingly uncomfortable jeans. Aziraphale’s fingers move again once this is accomplished, beginning to fiddle with the buttons at the top of the shirt.

It is here that Crowley’s conscious mind sends out one last bannerman before conceding defeat.

He grabs Aziraphale’s wrists to forestall him, and tilts the Angel’s head up to meet his gaze. Lust soaked as he knows he is, and likely, the Angel is as well, he feels the need to ask anyway.

“Aziraphale… I,” he stammers, forcing the blood that has migrated well south to make a temporary but impromptu return trip to his brain. “Are you absolutely sure you want to do _this_? _With me_?”

He is prepared to hear a stammered and flustered “no”. That is a contingency he has certainly planned for, and the thought of how to approach dealing with a refusal begins to click into place in his mind.

He is asking for consent. He will not have the Angel turning around and denying this and claiming that he was tempted - Crowley has not, would not tempt him to this. He wouldn’t dare, as often as the opportunity for him to do so has arisen over the millennia. For all of his prowess and skill at temptation, sexual or otherwise, he cares too much about the Angel to set him up for a fall that way. If Aziraphale follows through and continues this, it will be of his own choosing. It has always been his choice.

“...I do not take what we…” he gulps for air, steadying himself. “Are doing… are about to do lightly… and we can’t undo this once it’s done. I care too damn much about you for this to be anything but your choice, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale looks up at him, his lust and love soaked gaze, penetrating in it’s clear honesty. “I love you.” Aziraphale says, breathlessly, a returned acknowledgement of his feelings. “I am positive that I want to do… whatever this is, whatever we're doing… with you.”

Crowley chuckles genuinely, “...The word is _sex_, Aziraphale. We’re about to have sex. Or at least, continue making out somewhere more conducive to being comfortable with significantly fewer layers of clothing.” He drawls. He leans in, capturing the Angel’s mouth again, before hurriedly backing him out of the kitchen, down a hallway, and into his bedroom. Crowley awkwardly pushes the door open with his shoulder while somehow managing to undo Aziraphale’s bowtie one handed. Aziraphale thinks, somewhere in the haze of hands roving over buttons, that he is going to have to have Crowley show him that trick one day. A snap of fingers brings to life the wan light of a dim lamp on a nightstand.

Crowley presses him against the door roughly, rucking Aziraphale’s dress shirt upwards before it is fully unbuttoned so that he can finish the job. There is zero finesse to either of their movements or ministrations toward each other - inexperience, pent up emotions, and lust have fuelled something of a frenzy between them, and they seek sensation and each other, and neither particularly cares about the lack of love soaked declarations or sweepingly romantic, bodice ripper theatrics. Something primal and deeply rooted has taken hold of them both, they both instinctively understand the bits and pieces of the dance they are about to do, even if they have never done them together, or in the case of one particularly wanton Angel, at all.

Thin fingers deftly undo the remaining buttons on Aziraphale’s shirt, and Crowley slides it off of his shoulders. Aziraphale roughly pulls his arms out of it and it starts a quickly growing pile of shed clothing, cast forgotten to the floor. Aziraphale deepens their kiss, thrusting his tongue deep into Crowley’s mouth as he tugs Crowley’s shirt tails completely free of their denim prison. Crowley’s fingers find their way to his own shirt, and he promptly begins the process of removing his button down and the black t-shirt he is wearing underneath, while Aziraphale’s hands busy themselves with his belt and jeans. Crowley has to make a concerted effort to not miracle away their remaining clothing- he intends to do this the human way, all fumbling fingers and clumsy awkward explorations, because he wants to savor this. He only gets to do this once, and there are some things that are just best done without interference to cheapen them.

Crowley slides his hands under Aziraphale’s shirt, fingers finally meeting exposed skin. The angel’s head tilts backward and he groans slightly as Crowley’s black lacquered fingernails scrape lightly against his shoulder blades. Crowley feels a slight release of uncomfortable pressure as his belt disappears somewhere into the abyss of his bedroom floor, and his jeans and boxers are pushed clear of his hip bones. He steps out of his pants awkwardly, not wanting to break skin contact with Aziraphale - some frantic part of his brain is still trying to wrap itself around what is happening and on some level, he is afraid if he opens his eyes, or lets go of Aziraphale, he will wake up from this fever dream that he very much wants to see play out to its conclusion. Jeans and underthings and then finally his own socks (which he removes using his toes, frankly, because it is too much effort to take them off with his hands, preoccupied as they are with divesting his entirely irritatingly too clothed partner of his own remaining clothing) join the heap on the floor.

He hisses, sibilant, as cool air from the air-conditioning vent drafts against the sensitive, now uncovered parts of his body. He shivers and presses himself against Aziraphale, seeking warmth from his heated skin. Aziraphale ducks his head, bringing his lips to Crowley's neck and bites, sucking on the skin there, worrying a mark. Crowley grabs Aziraphale by the shoulders, turning him and steering him backward toward the large four poster bed in the center of the room. He snaps his fingers - a bottle of something clear appears on the nightstand.

He does not want to waste the time later digging through a nightstand drawer one handed trying to find it.

He hooks a long leg behind Aziraphale’s knees and deliberately knocks the angel off his feet with a hard push backward - Aziraphale lands on the mattress, bracing against the impact with his palms. Aziraphale realizes with amusement that the movement is well practiced and he vaguely wonders just how many times that Crowley has done that over the course of his existence. Probably too many, if he’s truly honest.

Aziraphale is not naïve. He knows exactly what Crowley is and is aware and understands that sexual temptation is part of the job, and it’s no wonder - Crowley is gorgeous, beautiful in the way his creator had formed him, and Aziraphale sees that beauty regardless of what form he takes, and he knows that he has had ample opportunity to perfect the art of luring, tempting, and seducing over several millennia because of it. Crowley's form is designed to be attractive and he plays it up, regardless of what he presents himself at- he has been both male and female, embodying aspects of both and neither, for millennia, altering his body and appearance in a way to ensure he has the upper hand in his interactions for his entire period of existence here on Earth.

He knows full well that Crowley has earned his title as the Architect of Original sin, as the Tempter, for a reason - he also knows that whatever is happening now, despite those titles, it is genuine. He has seen what happens when Crowley does deign to use his powers for their intended purpose, and he knows he would be absolutely hopeless to fight against it.

He clumsily scoots back on the mattress toward the pillows neatly stacked at the head of the large bed. Crowley’s scent is strong here - it is very clear he sleeps here regularly. The cool odor of Crowley’s cologne - evergreen, mint, vetiver and traces of smoke is strong here and envelops his senses as he lays back to rest his head against the pillows. Crowley climbs after him, inserting a knee between his thighs to separate them, and he presses himself prone against Aziraphale as he dives for another bruising, desperate, crushing kiss.

Crowley relishes in the firm but plush feel of Aziraphale's body against his own. Where his own body is hard- angular, bones and ribs jutting out awkwardly under pale skin, giving him an almost coltish waifishness that he has never quite been able to change, Aziraphale's body is slightly rounded; soft, and inviting, but not quite as much as the clothing he wears would suggest. The layers of clothing Aziraphale wears like so much armor disguises the strength of the angel- the definition of muscle is certainly visible once he is stripped bare. He lacks the chiseled appearance he first had when he was assigned to Earth, (he has deliberately allowed it to fade beneath that layer of softness he has added to his corporation) but there is without doubt, plenty of physical evidence that he is still a warrior, and Crowley would not have it any other way.

Crowley grinds his hips downward and Aziraphale makes a guttural noise in the back of his throat that takes Crowley by surprise as their arousals slide against each-other, and Crowley breaks away to kiss a trail of meteorite-hot kisses down Aziraphale’s neck, and then his shoulder, stopping to toy with a nipple. He sucks on it, and Aziraphale arches and grinds his hips against him, drawing in a quick hiss as he inhales with a surprised gasp. Crowley toys with the other nipple briefly with the hand he is not using to prop himself upright, eliciting another pleasantly surprised gasp when he rolls it between his fingers. Grinning wickedly, he continues his descent downward, placing kisses lightly across Aziraphale’s torso, on the angel's soft stomach, on the ghost's trace of hip bones where an iliac crest should be visible, on soft, welcoming thighs.

He sits back on his haunches momentarily, looking up at Aziraphale, taking in his half lidded gaze and lust soaked half-smile.

He awaits permission to continue, afraid to overstep. He is well aware of how overwhelming these sensations can be. It has been a long time since he was in Aziraphale's place, but the memory of his own lost virginity is still fresh in his mind, and he remembers both the joint thrill of this new, exciting experience and the lack of understanding of what he was doing. He is more practiced, but Aziraphale needs to experience this at his own pace.

He takes the opportunity to drink in the sight of his partner- he looks every bit like one of Botticelli's angels, he thinks, inviting and warm, his arousal jutting hard against his stomach. His head is thrown back against the mattress as Crowley tentatively caresses a thigh.

Aziraphale reaches for Crowley, a wordless affirmation.

Crowley leans forward, spreading the Angel's knees gently, splaying them on either side of his shoulders and kisses gently against the sensitive flesh on the insides of them. Aziraphale shudders. Crowley grins, pleased, as he winds those kisses to the top of Aziraphale's pubis, pressing a kiss to the base of his aching cock, burying his nose in the crisp, clean smell of the Angel here, the remnant odors of his body wash (Irish Spring, Crowley notes with amusement), and his own musk are strong and intoxicating. Aziraphale bucks against the slight pressure, muttering a slight "oh!" of surprise.

Crowley moves now, kissing up the length of him gently, until he reaches the swollen tip. He swipes the pad of his thumb over the slit on the head, feeling the slickness there. Aziraphale arches again, his breath hitching. Crowley presses his lips to it and parts them, hollowing his cheeks as he takes the angel fully into his mouth with a throaty groan of his own.

Aziraphale swears.

"Oh… oh _Fuck_!"

His toes curl into the duvet and he draws his knees upward, planting his feet on the mattress. He wants to arch into the sensation of Crowley, warm and wet around him as his head bobs up and down in a slow but pleasurable rhythm, but the demon is pinning his hips down with both hands and a fair amount of force- his nails dig crescent moons into them, grounding him to the bed.

He idly wonders if this can undo him completely, cause him to discorporate.

_No wonder the humans like this so much._

Sparks dance behind his eyelids. He unscrews his eyelids and looks down at Crowley- his eyes are entirely reptilian, pupils narrowed, focused on his task with a single minded ferocity that in another circumstance, would perhaps frighten even him. Crowley is no longer making an effort to make them appear at all human. The sclera has been completely overtaken by the green-yellow of his irises, and they fall half lidded, eyelashes fanning across them delicately. Aziraphale slowly realizes that Crowley’s loss of control over how his eyes look is the result of his arousal and commits this piece of detail to memory. It is a useful thing to know about his demon. He watches momentarily, as Crowley's eyes close and he does something interesting with his tongue as his head and fist move up and down in a slow, languid, and deliberate pattern down his aching cock that rips a guttural moan from his throat and another breathy swear from him.

"Oh god, Crowley…"

_His_ demon.

The phrase sits heavy in his mind, the implications far reaching.

He loves Crowley. For all of his faults and his many flaws, Crowley is by far the kindest and the most human creature he knows. Kinder than himself, even though he knows the demon will never willingly admit to it. He has known he has loved him for an agonizingly long time.

He reaches for Crowley, his hands finding Crowley's hair and he fists his hands in it gently. The slight tug on the follicles causes the demon to moan around him and the slight pressure encourages the demon to take him deeper, pressing his nose to the base of him, to the soft, curly blonde hair that is nestled there. Aziraphale's hips come off the bed this time, and Aziraphale begins to feel the beginnings of pressure building low in his gut.

He stammers "Crowley, I-I…"

Crowley speeds up his ministrations, working him over with a practiced, breakneck pace, and Aziraphale bucks again as his tongue wraps languidly up his length. He whimpers, he knows he is close. He knots one hand in the sheets, the other is locked firmly on the top of Crowley's head, and Crowley does something with his tongue, wrapping it around his length and swirling around his tip and he can no longer hold it back. The world goes white.

He comes, crying Crowley’s name and spurting hotly into Crowley's mouth and the demon swallows, allowing Aziraphale a few abortive thrusts before he withdraws, crawling upwards over Aziraphale's body to steal another kiss from the spent Angel. Aziraphale can taste the slick, salt-brine taste of himself on Crowley's tongue. It is not unpleasant.

Crowley looks incredibly pleased with himself as he draws back from Aziraphale's mouth to look on the flushed, wanton creature he is currently straddling.

"_Mine_." He hisses possessively, his finger tracing a series of marks, a constellation he has left along alabaster skin.

A chuckle and a breathy, “Yes, _yours_.” follows the statement. He sounds content. Sated.

Aziraphale tentatively reaches down between them, palming Crowley's hard, leaking arousal. Serpentine eyes close with a sibilant hiss as warm fingers close around him and stroke. Crowley’s hands tighten reflexively at the new touch and he arches into it, grinding himself against Aziraphale’s hand, seeking friction.

“Mmm, I… I want.” he groans ineloquently, breathlessly, as Aziraphale strokes him languidly.

“What do you want, dearest?” The use of the endearment does not go unnoticed.

“I want to… I want to take you.”

Aziraphale swallows thickly, then pulls the demon down for another bruising kiss. “Anything you want, my love.” he whispers, when they break apart again. He feels Crowley rise on his haunches slightly, reaching for something on his nightstand. The absurd sound of viscous liquid being squeezed from a tube follows. Aziraphale thinks for a moment and then realizes it is some sort of lubricant. Crowley slicks his fingers with it, then moves his hand to circle Aziraphale’s entrance. He looks up again at Aziraphale, then says, “Please tell me… if it hurts. Because it might.”

Aziraphale nods, bracing for the intrusion he knows is coming. Crowley carefully reorients himself, this time, to kneel between Aziraphale’s thighs. A slick, thin finger breeches him slowly, deliberately. It is a strange sensation, he thinks, but not unpleasant.

The odd sort of burning pressure that it starts off as morphs into something significantly more pleasant as he relaxes. Crowley moves his hand around, working his fingers in and out, stretching the muscles there. A second digit joins the first, and Aziraphale feels the change in angle as Crowley brushes against something that sends a jolt through his groin. He groans, delighting in the sensation, as his fingers begin a relentless attack on that place within him, reducing him to a writhing, gasping mess. A slight burn as a third finger joined the first two, but that too fades, and Aziraphale begins moving against the fingers on his own, pushing back against them, seeking that delightful friction. Suddenly, Crowley withdraws them entirely, and then he feels Crowley against him. He enters Aziraphale slowly. The angel has screwed his eyes shut, attempting to adjust for the difference in sensation - he feels so very full, in a way he has never felt before and there is a slight burn, thrilling as it mixes with the haze of pleasure clouding his consciousness.

Crowley is watching for signs of pain, cautious, and he waits for Aziraphale’s muscles to relax from where they have clenched around him. He would love nothing more at the moment than to fuck the angel into a quivering mess of sweat soaked limbs and gasped utterances of adulation but he knows that this intrusion is new and can hurt. It had for him. Eventually the angel relaxes enough for Crowley to move, and Aziraphale makes no hiss of discomfort or motion to forestall him. It is a sound that makes Crowley think of a fair number of lascivious things that he is not currently doing to the angel, and he makes a mental note to try them later.

He shifts slightly, adjusting the angle and the pace he has set to look into Aziraphale’s eyes as he leans on his elbows, thrusting into him deeper. He knows when he has hit the intended target- Aziraphale’s eyes widen perceptibly, and he gasps. Crowley can feel his erection rise again between them, and he smirks, then kisses the angel again.

Suddenly, Aziraphale reaches up, grabbing Crowley by the hips, and rolls them without warning. Crowley gasps as Aziraphale begins to ride him at a punishing pace, his lust blown pupils wide, his hair mussed. He looks feral. He fists his hands in the sheets - he had not expected Aziraphale to do that, and it is hot. The slap of skin against skin is lewd and Crowley relishes in it. This was a side of the angel he had not expected. He moans as the pressure in his groin builds, a writhing, debauched thing fully in the throes of its own ecstasy.

Crowley reaches between them, fisting his fingers around Aziraphale’s cock. The angel hisses slightly at the touch, tossing his head backward, as Crowley plays with the slit, thumbing over it to spread the wetness that had already gathered there. His fist begins to match the pace Aziraphale is setting, and he can feel a familiar coil of heat gathering low in his belly.

He whines, a high pitched, keening, desperate noise in the back of his throat.

Aziraphale hears the change in Crowley’s breathing as it hitches, and he leans forward, and whispers, “It’s alright, my love… that’s it, come for me.”

That undoes him completely. He bucks upward into Aziraphale, his free hand clutching at the angel’s back as his wings suddenly erupt, and he yells as he climaxes, releasing in hot spurts into the Angel. His vision goes white for several seconds, and the only thing he is aware of is his own breath and the sensation of weight against his torso and lap for several long moments.

When his vision returns, he realizes that Aziraphale has also finished, the evidence of it spread across his chest and hand. The angel is slumped over him, resting on his elbows, his head buried in the crook of his neck. Aziraphale makes no attempt to move. Crowley realizes that he doesn’t really want him to either, despite how disgustingly warm and sticky they both are. Sweat plasters Crowley's once artfully tousled auburn hair to his scalp in a disheveled fashion that makes him itch. He laughs at the absurdity of it, the chuckle erupting from deep within his chest.

Aziraphale's head rises from its resting place and he vanishes his wings back to the ethereal plane. He extricates himself off of Crowley, and moves to snap his fingers to miracle away the mess. Crowley grabs his hand and forestalls him.

"Mmm Angel. _No_… not this time. We can clean up the mundane way." He murmurs. He notes Aziraphale's slightly confused frown, and clarifies, running a hand idly down the confused Angel's bicep.

"Baths are nice… especially with company."

A happy smile lights up Aziraphale's face as he settles back down, resting his head on Crowley's chest in the afterglow of what they have just done.

"Well… this was unexpected." Aziraphale breathes. "I can certainly see what the fuss is about from their perspective."

Crowley nods, a happy, sated noise of contentment is made somewhere in the back of his throat. "There's a reason the temptations work, y'know… feels nice. People usually wanna do it again once they've gotten a taste."

Aziraphale nods. "...did you. Y'know, tempt me?" He asks. He knows the answer but wants to hear the demon admit it.

Crowley shook his head. "No, Aziraphale. Trust me… you'd have known it if I had. You wouldn't have just allowed me to peel you like a banana. This… was just us. Can be just us…" he drew a pattern with his index finger on a patch of skin on Aziraphale's torso. "If you want it to be."

Aziraphale rises and for a moment, Crowley is sure he has fucked up. He's gone too fast. But Aziraphale turns to him with a beatific smile. "I-I would like that, Crowley." He stammers. "I want to be yours."

Crowley's arm tightens around Aziraphale. "Do you know how fucking long I have waited for this?" He whispers. He feels Aziraphale nod. His nose is buried in Aziraphale's hair.

"I've known since the garden." The angel says. "Probably even before you had a name for what you felt… I've known. And the only reason I haven't acted on it is because I have been afraid of what they would do to you."

Crowley frowns. If he had known… Christ. There has been so much lost time.

Aziraphale sighs, burrowing his face in Crowley's chest. "I've loved you for a long time. And I will continue to love you until the end of days, when our sand finally runs out. I'm yours for as long as you will have me."

"Whatever may come… I'm yours."

Crowley nods. "The same goes for me… but I think you already knew that. I'll follow you to the ends of the world and back." He entertained his fingers with Aziraphale's. "And I intend to keep you, now that I finally have you."

Aziraphale sighs contentedly. "Do you still have any cigarettes?"

Crowley nods, miracling the package he keeps in his nightstand into his hand. There is no need for a lighter. "Discovering the finer pleasures of being thoroughly debauched?"

Aziraphale swats at him lightly. "Sex and a cigarette are a good way to cap off the end of the world. It also seems like a fitting way to tell Gabriel to sod off." He replies. He doesn't take the lighter or the carton from the Demon's hand.

"I love you. You're a terrible influence on me. And I wouldn't have it any other way. Now come on." He tugs the Demon upward and then drags him off the bed. The carton of cigarettes falls to the mattress, forgotten.

Crowley decides he immediately likes the sound of the way Aziraphale says "I love you."

He responds in kind. 

"I love you too."

"You mentioned something about a bath…"

Crowley extricates himself from the comfort of his bed. He miracles the sheets clean, then stands and and grins as the Angel leads him toward his large en suite bathroom.

This was the beginning of something better for them both.

The last, treacherous snake of anxiety and doubt in his mind died it's own hissing death, dissolving in the sound of laughter from a pair of outcasts who embraced each other at the very beginning of a new arrangement.

[1] - Genesis 3:14 : And the LORD G_d said unto the serpent, “Because thou hast done this, thou art cursed above all cattle, and above every beast of the field; upon thy belly shalt thou go, and dust shalt thou eat all the days of thy life:” - King James Bible’

[2] - What he fails to mention is that it takes a truly absurd amount of demonic influence, the ability to work dark magic, and know how gleaned from a witch who exacts terrible prices from those who ask for her help. He had escaped that fate by virtue of being a demon and outside her sphere of influence, but she was not outside of his. After sharing an awful lot of expensive ass liquor, she had agreed to teach him that trick in exchange for being left alone by future demonic visitors. He’d readily agreed - partially because he liked her, but partially because he appreciated being able to call in favors.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and constructive criticism are welcome and appreciated!


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